John Oxenham

Red Breast

   I saw one hanging on a tree,
   And O his face was sad to see,—
               Misery, misery me!
 
   There were berries red upon his head,
   And in his hands, and on his feet,
   But when I tried to pick and eat,
   They were his blood, and he was dead;—
               Misery, misery me!
 
   It broke my heart to see him there,
   So lone and sad in his despair;
   The nails of woe were through his hands,
   And through his feet,—ah, misery me!
 
   With beak and claws I did my best
   To loose the nails and set him free,
   But they were all too strong for me;—
               Misery, misery me!
 
   I picked and pulled, and did my best,
   And his red blood stained all my breast;
   I bit the nails, I pecked the thorn,
   O, never saw I thorn so worn;
   But yet I could not get him free;—
               Misery, misery me!
 
   And never since have I feared man,
   But ever I seek him when I can,
   And let him see the wish in me
   To ease him of his misery.
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